


Visiting Cousins

by winteringinrome



Series: Cousins [1]
Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian Sex, Massage, Menstruation, Period Sex, Soft Ann(e)s, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-09-07 21:11:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20316079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winteringinrome/pseuds/winteringinrome
Summary: Anne is in a bad temper. She has been in a bad temper since she woke up. She scolds Argus and shouts at Joseph and indulges in a particularly long and vicious argument with Marian over the state of the front yard.Ann watches it all with creeping dismay. She too woke up not entirely herself this morning, her back aches more than usual and she feels constantly, ridiculously on the edge of tears. She thinks she may be coming down with something.Things soon go from bad to worse.Shortly after moving into Shibden, Ann gets her period and indulgent schmoop ensues.Title is a reference to the euphemism Anne uses for her period (‘cousin’) in her diaries. Inspiration came from a quoted diary entry in Anne Choma’s official companion - “[Ann’s] cousin came this morning, and I was most tender over her.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments and kudos people have left me on my last two stories. It really makes it a joy to write and post! I hope you will enjoy this one too. It's going to be a three-parter - following chapters coming over the next two weeks.

Anne is in a bad temper. She has been in a bad temper since she woke up. She scolds Argus and shouts at Joseph and indulges in a particularly long and vicious argument with Marian over the state of the front yard.

Ann watches it all with creeping dismay. She too woke up not entirely herself this morning, her back aches more than usual and she feels constantly, ridiculously on the edge of tears. She thinks she may be coming down with something.

Things soon go from bad to worse.

First Ann spends too long gossiping with Thomas in the stables. She’d only gone down for a moment after breakfast, to check on Duchess, her chestnut mare. But she found Thomas struggling with the horse, who was skittish and refusing to let the groom remove the stubborn stones lodged in her hooves. So Ann had stayed and made a fuss over the horse to calm her and give Thomas the chance to complete his task.

They’d got to talking, by Ann’s studiously casual design, about Copenhagen and Anne’s adventurous passage back to England. Anne doesn’t like to talk about it much.

“Filthy,” is all she’ll say. “And bilious.”

But Ann likes to think of her, rough and storm-lashed at the helm of a ship, staring down the oceans between her and her family.

And Thomas, it turns out, is full of wonderful titbits about his mistress and her escapades. Ann loses half an hour, absent-mindedly petting Duchess’ silky nose, enthralled by the tales of Anne in Europe. She is just giggling at Thomas' accounts of Anne forcing him to look at all the preserved corpses at the Göttingen University museum, when a shadow falls across them from the stable entrance and the laughter dies in her throat. It is Anne. And she is _glowering_.

“What on earth are you doing down here?” she asks Ann.

“I was just –”

“I hunted high and low for you.”

“I was helping Thomas with –”

But Anne, it seems, is in no mood for explanations. She has already spun on her heel and is marching back to the house. Ann gives Thomas an apologetic look and follows after her, trotting to keep up.

“I’m meeting Pickells at midday,” Anne throws over shoulder, “and wanted to go over a few things with you in advance. No one knew where you were.”

“Duchess wouldn't –”

“You're covered in hay, Ann, really!”

Ann looks down and realises she's right, she pauses at the entrance to the house and brushes herself down. From inside she hears, “And what could Thomas _possibly_ be saying to entertain you?” and then a muffled something about “charmless” and “imbecile”.

By the time she catches up to Anne in her study, she finds her already staring crossly at her accounts.

Ann can’t help but feel a little stung by her tone and there is an unsettled feeling low in her stomach that she thinks must be a response to Anne's mood. The best approach, she decides, is to change the subject.

She takes the seat next to Anne and looks over her shoulder at the papers on the desk.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

Anne sniffs and starts to furiously scribble sums. Ann waits patiently until eventually Anne corrals her temper enough to put down her pen and say, “Mr. Pickells is calling in half an hour to discuss plans for the walkway to the chaumière.” She turns to Ann, her bad humour dissipating slightly in her enthusiasm. “I should like to level the ground there and put in a proper path, edged by beech trees. But I shall need another £30 to do the work to my satisfaction. I was wondering if you might provide me with a loan to cover the cost?”

And that's when matters quickly take a turn for the worse again. Because Anne asks her wife for money. And Ann _hesitates_. Only for a second and only with good reason. Because she had spoken to Pickells, not two days ago, and he had said what they should really consider is a cottage garden in front of the chaumière, leading down to the brook, with roses and foxglove, and wisteria around the door. That if they wanted things done properly, they would level the pathway and the garden at the same time, and have Pickells’ sons planting while he arranges the saplings. The whole operation would raise the cost closer to £55 but Ann can’t get the vision of that garden out of her head. She imagines leaning out of the window of the chaumière and being met with nothing but a haze of colour and the drone of bees and the sweet, heavy smell of flowers.

So all she had meant to do, in her moment of hesitation, was put that plan to Anne and offer her the larger sum instead, but she doesn’t get the chance. She hesitates and Anne flinches.

“Forget it,” Anne says quickly. “In fact I have thought better of it already. It is an unnecessary expense and I would prefer to focus on the essential improvements. I can wait until next rent-day for anything further and then reassess.”

And at that, Ann feels suddenly silly for setting her heart on the garden, which would definitely be an unnecessary expense. Anne is right, she thinks, she should be more practical. All the same, she can’t help feeling slightly weepy at the loss of it, as though she had already stood in that sweet, humming space and as if she now has had to watch someone rip it all up in front of her. She stays quiet and Anne doesn't meet her eye, just returns wordlessly to her sums.

\--

The last straw is politics.

They are sat in the drawing room, Anne on one of the long chairs, Ann tucked into a single chair by the window, where the light is good.

Since she moved into Shibden, Ann has made a habit of sitting here, writing or drawing or sewing, while Anne conducts meetings, so even though Anne is still in a foul mood and even though Ann is now feeling very distinctly peculiar, she takes her usual spot that afternoon and pulls out her sketchbook.

At 4, a Mr. Robert Hinscliffe, eldest son of James Hinscliffe the coal merchant, calls to enquire after the lease of Stump Cross Inn, which will soon be vacant. Anne has interviewed several potential tenants but is being very particular over both their bids and their character.

Marian shows Hinscliffe in and, perhaps sensing Anne’s mood, stays to supervise. She sits next to her sister and Hinscliffe sits opposite, clutching his hat in his lap.

Ann is working on a likeness of the elder Anne Lister and is struggling with the hands. She wants to capture the softness of them, their story, the way the fine, papery skin pulls delicately over the knuckles and wrist bones. She is paying no attention to the meeting going on behind her, until a sudden sharpness in Anne’s tone makes her turn round.

Conversation has turned rapidly, it seems, (as it always does lately with Anne) to the upcoming election.

“Tell me Mr. Hinscliffe,” Anne is saying, “if you were to become my tenant you would receive the vote. Could I count on you to vote in my interests?”

“For the blues, ma’am?”

“For the blues and for Wortley, yes.”

Hinscliffe shrugs, “If you asked me to, ma’am, I’m not much one for politics.”

“And your father?”

“My father, ma’am?” Ann sees Hinscliffe shift nervously.

“What about his vote?”

“I think he votes for the Whigs, ma’am.”

“I _know _he votes for the Whigs. What I am asking is, if I gave you – his son – tenancy over Stump Cross, could I count on his vote too?”

Marian leans forward in her seat, “Why shouldn’t Mr. Hinscliffe vote the way he pleases?”

Anne turns to her with barely concealed contempt, “Because he is _my _tenant and on _my _land.”

Marian rolls her eyes and sits back. Anne continues, “If I ask him to give me his vote, he should do so. Or I will find someone else who will.”

“My father's said he’ll always vote that way ma’am, there’s nowt you or I can do to change that, I’m afraid.”

“I think it’s admirable that your father is sticking to his principles,” says Marian.

“What is admirable, _Marian_,” Anne says acidly, “is your insistence on talking on matters you know nothing about.”

Marian splutters. Ann winces.

“Maybe I could visit your father,” she offers quickly, keen to avoid yet another lengthy squabble. Hinscliffe turns to look at her.

Anne shakes her head, “No, Ann.”

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t have –”

But Ann is starting to feel frustrated, the aching in her back making her peevish – why shouldn’t she help? She ignores Anne and turns to Hinscliffe. “Your younger brothers attend the Sunday school at Lightcliffe don’t they, Mr. Hinscliffe? I have met your father a few times. Perhaps I could –”

Marian jumps in, “See, they are good tenants, Anne, godly, part of the community. What does it matter which way they vote?”

That wasn’t quite what Ann meant – only that she thought she might be on a better footing with James Hinscliffe than Anne, whom he still resents over the business with the coal.

Anne rounds on Marian, “It matters because I am the one providing them with the household that grants them the right to vote. Without me they might have no vote at all.”

“Well, they may as well have no vote if they cannot choose how to use it!”

Stuck in the middle, Hinscliffe is beginning to look extremely uncomfortable, his knuckles, where he grips his hat, have turned white. Ann leans towards him again, talking under Anne and Marian who now appear well on their way to a brawl, “I shall speak to your father next Sunday,” she says. “Perhaps if I explain the situation he will think differently.”

Anne stops mid-diatribe and turns her irritation to her wife, “No Ann, that will never do!”

“Why not?”

“I have been landlord to the Hinscliffes for eight years. If James Hinscliffe shouìld listen to anyone, he should listen to _me_. I have previously asked him to change his vote and he has refused. I am asking him again now and, if he still will not concede, why should I continue to assist his family when there are so many others more accommodating and deserving of my time? I will not be undermined on my own estate,” she turns to Ann, “or in my own household.”

The implied accusation is so unexpected, so unfair that, to Ann’s horror, the tears that have been threatening all morning, suddenly spring to her eyes. She sniffs and gulps and tries to suppress them but it is no use. Terrified that if she stays a moment longer she will end up howling in her chair like a small child, she blurts an apology and flees from the room.


	2. Chapter 2

Once she is in the quiet of the bedroom upstairs, Ann is suddenly, startlingly aware that the discomfort that she has felt low in her back all morning has spread to the front in a dull, rolling ache that sends waves of pain between her hips and up to her stomach. There is a slight dampness too in her petticoats.

Oh, she thinks, _oh_ _of course_.

Several months have passed from when she last had her ‘monthly’ visitor, but since moving into Shibden she has been eating well, sleeping well and joining Anne on her regular – strenuous, _lengthy_ – walks. So it is perhaps no surprise that it has made its return now. All the same, as Ann stands in the still slightly unfamiliar bedroom, she cannot help but feel overwhelmed. She is not sure where any of her things are, for a start, unsure too whether she can call Eugenie for some hot water or if she should go down to the kitchen herself. And at Crow Nest she often took to her bed, but will the household not think her terribly rude here if she does not return downstairs? They must already be wondering about her abrupt departure.

As Ann dithers for a moment, quite at a loss, another spasm racks through her and practicality pushes her into action. Wincing, she makes her way over to the dresser where her things have been packed away. Somewhere in here, she hopes, are the items she needs – worsted stockings and drawers, linen rags, preferably some brandy.

But several minutes later, when she has half overturned the room, she has still not found anything of use. She is sure she packed them, has a memory, in fact, of placing them near the bottom of her trunk, but she has pulled out all her cases from under the bed and has turned out every drawer and is still empty handed.

She is just working herself up into tearfulness again when there is a quiet knock on the door and she turns round to find a tentative Anne pushing it open.

The older woman stands in the doorway, a little stiffly. “I wasn’t sure if you...” she starts. “But, well Marian said I must come after you at once. You left so suddenly. Are you alright?”

Ann hurriedly tries to blink away her tears. “Yes, I’m alright.”

“You’ve been crying.”

“It’s nothing, I –”

But Anne is no longer looking at her, she has suddenly taken in the state of the room before her and her face drains of colour.

“You’re... leaving?”

Ann follows her gaze, sees the drawers she has turned out in her search, the clothes thrown on the bed, the pulled out trunk, and realises what it must look like.

“Oh God, Anne, no. No, I’m not leaving. I’m...” With a little sigh, she collapses helplessly on the bed. “I’m searching.”

“For what?”

“Rags.”

“_Rags_?” Anne’s expression is incredulous.

“Yes, it’s my... my...” Ridiculous, Ann thinks, to be so shy when Anne knows her as well, as intimately, as she does. But still she stammers over the words and can’t meet the other woman’s eye, “My... time of the month.”

Ann is still for a moment, uncomprehending, and then it as though she wilts in the doorframe, all the tension draining from her. “Ah,” she says, “ahh.”

“I thought I’d brought my things from Crow Nest, but I must have forgotten them or misplaced them because I’ve looked everywhere, and I didn’t want to ask the servants because, well because I was too embarrassed.”

Anne picks her way through the piles of clothes and comes to sit by her side, carefully moving one of the more elaborate petticoats out of the way. She takes Ann’s hands in her own. “And is that all it is? Apart from that, you’re alright?”

Ann sniffs, “Yes I’m, I’m–” but then an overwhelming wave of frustration and self-pity rolls through her. “No! No I’m not alright. My back hurts, my chest hurts, I want to cry at _everything_.” As if on cue, the tears start to roll down her cheeks again. “I can’t find any of my things.”

Anne draws her to her, bringing Ann’s head down to rest on her shoulder, still mid-rant, her words becoming muffled in the cloth of her waistcoat. “I’ve been in a wretched mood and who knows what everyone downstairs will think of me –”

Anne hushes her gently.

“Marian was only concerned I’d upset you. And who cares what Mr. Hinscliffe thinks.”

“And you’re not cross?”

“I’m not cross, I wasn’t cross.”

“You shouted.”

“I... raised my voice. And not at you, Ann, not really. I was angry with Hinscliffe and with Marian’s ridiculous notions on politics. Good Lord, if you’d heard what she –”

With a visible effort, Anne sets aside her annoyance. She lifts Ann’s chin with her fingers.

“No matter. Now, what can I get you? Hm? I will sort out some linens, and a pair of drawers. Shall I ask Eugenie to prepare you a bath?”

\--

In less than half an hour, Eugenie has had the iron tub set before the fire in the little room alongside the bedroom and the water heated and brought up from downstairs. When she has left and closed the door behind her, Anne comes to Ann, who has stayed sat on the bed throughout all the preparations, feeling sickly and pathetic. Anne gently sets aside the cushion that Ann has been clutching to her stomach and draws her to her feet.

“Come on, my love,” she says, “you’ll feel much better once you’re in the bath.”

She helps Ann to undress, standing behind her to untie her belt and dress. Ann goes where directed, lifting an arm, a leg, stepping out of petticoats, holding still while Anne removes pins and loosely braids her hair. When Anne undoes the laces of her corset and peels it from her, Ann lets out a small whimper of relief. Her breasts are swollen and tender and having them pressed close all day has been almost unbearable. Even the drag of her undershirt against her skin feels too much. She pulls it over her head, till she stands in the middle of the room in just her drawers.

Anne strokes her palms down Ann’s ribs and then back up, her thumbs just brushing the sides of her breasts. Her skin rises to gooseflesh immediately and she shivers in pleasure. Anne’s thumbs graze against her again, no real intent behind it but it’s enough to stir Ann and make her shift and sigh.

The teasing continues for a moment, then Anne puts her hands to Ann’s hips and draws her closer in so that they are locked, Ann’s back to her chest, one tight line from shoulder to foot. Along the ridges of her spine, Ann can feel the small buttons of Anne's waistcoat, beyond that, the hard lines of her stays and beyond that, she fancies, the steady thrum of Anne’s heart.

They have been at odds all day and Ann feels as if they have barely touched. To be so close to Anne now makes her feel breathless and needy. There is a sensation low between her hips that has nothing to do with the cramps. She turns her head to kiss her. It is messy and imperfect, but all the more rousing for that – their mouths pressing and sliding at an awkward angle, Anne’s hand on her jaw to draw her closer, Ann’s tongue in her mouth.

“Enough,” Anne murmurs eventually, pulling reluctantly away, “or we shall end up letting the bathwater run cold.”

Ann had forgotten about the bath, about the concept of baths and all about her reason for needing one. But now that Anne has stopped kissing her and her head has space for thoughts again, she realises how much pain she’s still in and suddenly the thought of submerging her aching body in warm water does not seem such a poor alternative.

After another little nudge from Anne, she takes herself from the bedroom and into the side room, where the bath is still steaming gently in the glow from the fire. Here she strips off her drawers, surprised to see that, despite the pain, she has bled only a little. She bundles the stained underclothes into a pile for Eugenie to wash.

Then she steps into the water, sinks into it till she is submerged from the shoulders down and, _oh Lord_, it is heavenly. The relief is immediate – the cramps in her stomach soften, the ache in her back melts, the tension that seems to have held her body from the moment she woke dissipates and floats away in the steam.

Through the wall, Ann can hear Anne moving quietly about the bedroom, organising papers at her writing desk, putting the cases away. Ann is only half aware of her. It is dusk outside now so the room is dim, lit only by the flickering glow from the fireplace. Eugenie has put something in the water that makes it froth and fill the room with the scent of rosemary and cedar-wood. Ann props her arms on the side of the tub and leans back to rest her head. She closes her eyes.

She must have dozed a little, for next thing she knows, Anne is in the room and stoking the fire. Once she has got it burning brightly again, she comes to kneel beside the tub. She has unbuttoned her waistcoat and rolled her shirtsleeves up to her elbow. Her curls are wilting and whisping in the steam from the bath and she pushes the stray hairs from her face with the back of her hand. Ann’s heart catches at how fine she looks.

“How is it?” Anne asks.

Ann tilts back her head again and smiles, “Lovely. I don’t think I have ever been so content.”

Anne pauses, she dips her hand into the water, trailing a finger back and forth. At last she says softly, “I think I must apologise.”

Ann watches her.

“…over my behaviour today, I was not very kind to you.”

Ann waves a hand, “I was in a poor mood anyway,” she says “and perhaps I am the one who should be apologising.” Anne starts to speak but she rattles on, “I know it is an adjustment to have me here at Shibden and involved in your affairs. I think perhaps today I overstepped – talking too long to the servants, giving my opinions on the renovations and the tenants. The last thing I want is for to you feel I’m interfering.”

Anne is shaking her head, “No, no, you must not think that at all. Ann, there is nothing I want _more_ than for you to feel that Shibden is your home. These are your servants, your tenants too now.” She looks down, “With Thomas today, it was – it was just – I was looking all over for you and then I came to the stable and there you were, smiling and laughing with him, looking very cosy. I got, well I got jealous.”

“Jealous?” Ann looks at her incredulously, “Of _Thomas_?”

Anne shrugs lightly, “Marian informs me he has a lovely face.”

Ann thinks on that for a moment and laughs, “I suppose he might do, but I wasn’t paying any attention to it. We were talking about you. He was telling me about Europe, about your trips to the museums and about Copenhagen and when you were nearly shipwrecked off Cuxhaven. Lord, the stories Anne! I was in awe.” She smiles. “It was about you,” she says simply. “It is always about you.”

Anne bites her lip and looks a little abashed, “I was being foolish.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ann takes a breath, “And this afternoon, in the study – I think you may have misunderstood me.”

At her words, Anne’s jaw tenses slightly. “The money is no issue,” she says firmly. “We are married, yes, and that gives me a right to ask but it does not negate your right to refuse. I know my plans for Shibden are... substantial, and expensive. It is perfectly understandable that you do not wish to spend all your income on – ”

“But that’s not it at all,” Ann says quickly. “Only I had an idea – Pickells had an idea, in fact – of creating a proper garden for the chaumière and doing that work alongside the levelling of the path. But it would have been more expensive. And then you said we should only be focusing on the essential things so I felt silly raising it. But I don’t have any objections to spending our money on Shibden, you needn’t worry about that, Anne. In fact, you should probably be careful I don’t get too carried away.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well then, in that case, I shall forgive you this afternoon,” Anne says lightly, “when you sided with Marian.”

“I didn’t side with Marian! Goodness, what gave you that idea? I was offering to talk to Hinscliffe on your behalf.”

“You said they said they were good people and should vote as they pleased.”

“No, Marian said that,” Ann gives a little shrug, “and she is probably right. But if you want your tenants to vote a certain way, that is up to you as mistress of Shibden. And is up to me,” she smiles softly at Anne, “as wife to the mistress of Shibden, to support you. I was only trying to help.”

Anne looks away from her then, to the fire, and Ann sees her throat shift as she swallows.

“I sometimes think,” Anne says haltingly, “that I have been alone too long.” Her face is still turned from Ann. “For so many years I have been at odds with the world, in one way or another. I have grown accustomed to being self-sufficient, to fighting my own fight, because there was no one else to fight it for me.” She pauses and swallows again.

Ann reaches out a hand and places it on her arm, her damp fingers turning the white cloth translucent. Anne turns to face her at last, “And now here you are.”

“Here I am,” she says.

“If I am sometimes too harsh or mistrustful of your intentions, please be patient with me.” There are tears in her eyes, but Anne is smiling. “I am not used to having someone by my side. It feels almost… sometimes it feels almost too good to be true.”

She lifts Ann’s hand from her arm and kisses the palm softly, then her finger where the wedding ring sits.

If Ann hadn’t already cried so much today, she thinks she might weep again from the tenderness of it. They stay like that for a moment, Anne’s lips to Ann’s hand, their eyes on each other.

Then Ann breaks the spell. She points a finger gravely at Anne, and says, “There is someone else you really need to apologise to.” Anne raises her eyebrows. “Argus.”

“Argus?”

“You shouted at him this morning!”

“He was stealing sausages.”

“He was _eating_ sausages. That he’d been given. By your father.”

“Well then I must apologise to Argus and shout at my father.”

Ann laughs, “Must you shout at anybody?”

“Yes, three times a day if possible. It is good for my constitution.”

Ann flicks bath water at her, wetting her cheek and collar. “Well it is bad for mine.”

Anne wipes at her face, aping outrage, but she cannot hide the smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“Then for your sake, Miss Walker,” She reaches over and tugs gently on Ann’s braid, “I will try to limit myself to twice a day and only once on Sundays.”

She tugs the braid again, this time to draw Ann closer to her. Ann, still laughing, tilts her face for a kiss.

“How pretty you look,” Anne says, when they break apart, “in the firelight.”

Ann feels herself flush with pleasure and Anne’s gaze drops to her chest, where the blush is blooming across her skin. Then her eyes sweep down lower, unhurried, deliberate, along the full length of Ann’s body in the bath.

Ann follows her gaze, looking down at herself. Under the weight of Anne’s eyes, she feels sleek and sensual, the dim, flickering light making her pale limbs seem almost to glow under the water. This is the magic of Anne, Ann thinks, she can transform you. She looks at you with love and you feel worthy of love. She looks at you with desire and you feel desirous.

She gives a little shiver that has nothing to do with the cooling bathwater.

Anne doesn’t lift her gaze as she says, her voice low, “Let’s get you to bed.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This section contains period sex (although the period aspect is not dealt with particularly graphically), so if that’s not your thing probably best to skip this.

There is a towel waiting, warmed by the fire, for Ann to step into and wrap around herself. When she comes back into the bedroom, she sees Anne has also set aside a wad of linen and a pair of worsted drawers, which she puts on, and a clean nightdress, which she tries to put on –

“Don’t,” Anne says. “Not yet.”

So Ann stays standing in just her drawers, her arms crossed shyly over her naked breasts.

“I thought you might like me to rub your back,” Anne says, “would you?”

Her words send a shiver of heat through Ann. She _always_ wants Anne to rub her back. She thinks if she could stay in bed for the rest of her life and have Anne attend to the sore muscles of her spine day in day out, then she would die a happy woman.

She manages a mute nod.

Anne motions for her to lie on the bed and Ann climbs onto the clean sheets, positioning herself face-down, her head resting in the cradle of her arms.

From behind her she can hear Anne undressing, getting into her nightclothes, and then there is the sound of a jar opening and the familiar scent of the salve Dr. Belcombe prepared fills the room, fresh and faintly herbal.

The bed dips as Anne comes to kneel astride her and then her fingers are on Ann’s back, gliding smoothly across her skin. Anne does this as she does most things – with precision and enthusiasm. She runs her fingers firmly along the tight ridge of Ann’s spine, squeezes the tense muscles at her shoulders and rubs gentle circles on her tender lower back. Ann feels like wax melting under her hands, warm and pliant.

As the salve sinks into her muscles, Ann begins to yawn. The warm bath and now the massage, after such an unpleasant day, have made her languid and sleepy. She feels as though she could stretch out and purr like a cat.

But just when her eyes are starting to grow heavy, Anne’s touch begins to stray. Her fingers will graze lightly along the swell of Ann’s chest or her thumbs will just slip past the waist of her drawers. And each time she does it, Ann feels something stir inside her. Soon she wants _more._ What was intended to soothe and calm her now begins to make her fidget and shift restlessly against the bed.

“Stop wriggling, Ann,” Anne murmurs in her ear. Her words startle Ann, who had been thinking of nothing but Anne’s hands and the growing heat between her legs, but her tone, low and firm, makes Ann want to wriggle all the more. She moves her hips again, unthinkingly, not sure whether she is pressing down on the sheets or up against the hot weight of Anne above her.

At once, Anne slides a hand beneath them, so that her palm is pressed flush between Ann’s legs, and at the same moment she pushes forwards, her hips pressing into Ann from behind, so that Ann is pinned by her from both sides, quite unable to move.

“Hold _still_,” Anne says.

She does not move the hand she has thrust under Ann, though her fingers curl in such a way that she is cupping her gently. Ann can feel the heat of her palm through her drawers, the pressure of her fingers.

And from this stillness, this restraint, what had been soft and tender and gentle but a moment ago, is now charged and tense, until, despite neither if them moving an inch, Ann is suddenly trembling and damp with desire.

Just when she thinks she will be driven mad by it, Anne bears her hips down on her again so that Ann’s lap is pressed against the hand beneath her. And though Anne still does not move her fingers, Ann is thrust against them so that they nudge and rub between her legs.

She lets out a little gasp. Even through the drawers and her linens, Anne’s hand, where she grinds against it, has a wonderful effect. Anne pulls back and thrusts again. Ann’s gasp turns into a moan. She cannot move but to where Anne wants her, caught in a steady rocking motion between Anne’s hips and her hand. Just when the blunt nudging of Anne’s fingers between her legs begins to send waves of heat to Ann’s stomach, Anne pulls her away. Just when the anticipation of being held away becomes almost too much to bear, Anne pushes her forward. Completely at Anne’s mercy, Ann has to press her mouth to the pillow to keep from crying out.

When Anne pulls her hand from under her, she does cry out. A small, unbidden noise of frustration. But it is cut off when Anne takes her weight from Ann and tugs at her, turning her over until she is on her back.

Now they are face to face, Ann can see the effect their lovemaking has had on Anne. She is pleased to note that, for all her little acts of control, Anne is just as flushed and breathless as she. Her eyes are dark and, with Ann now on her back, they have dropped at once to her chest.

Ann follows her gaze. Her normally small breasts are swollen and, as she tries to catch her breath, they heave above her ribcage, plump and tender. Anne bites her lip and looks to Ann before slowly lowering her head and putting her mouth to one rosy nipple. She hovers for a moment, her breath hot and damp an inch from Ann’s skin, then, very gently, she drags her teeth across the peak of it.

Ann arches from the bed. She is so sensitive that she cannot be sure if it is from pleasure or from pain. Anne does it again, her white teeth just grazing the tip, her smile wicked. Then she licks, then kisses, then sucks, until Ann is sure it is pleasure she is feeling, certain, in fact, that it is the most pleasurable thing she has ever felt.

Anne turns her attention to the other breast, her hand coming up to fondle the one she had moved from. Then her hand slides lower, stroking down Ann’s ribs, across her stomach to alight at the waist of Ann’s drawers.

Ann’s hips snap up to meet her touch as if by their own accord but, just as Anne begins to pull at the fastening, she remembers – the linens between her legs. She will surely have bled on them by now.

“Anne,” she says, reluctantly. “Anne, stop.”

Anne’s hand stills, “Why?”

“Because I’m, you know…” Ann gestures below her waist.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Anne looks at her, perplexed, “does it bother you?”

Ann hesitates for a moment and then laughs helplessly. “Well no, it doesn’t bother me _now_. Not now you’ve kissed me and teased me and got me all hot.”

“Well then,” Anne says. And the matter is settled.

She puts her hands back to the waist of Ann’s drawers, undoes the button and slips her hand delicately inside.

The first time Anne’s fingers touch the bare flesh between her legs, Ann thinks things might be over before they even start, for Anne has worked her to such a pitch and Ann is so sensitive there, that she believes she could come just from this – one fingertip against her skin. But Anne is too clever for that, she keeps her hand very still until Ann has had a chance to catch her breath, and when she does move, she does it so slowly, so lightly that Ann is able to get used to the feeling without losing her head entirely.

But if she thought her breasts were tender, the sensation at her lap is that tenfold. She feels raw and exposed, as though every touch of Anne’s hand is directly on the nerve itself.

Normally, she likes to have Anne inside of her, likes Anne to spread her open and slide her fingers in to the knuckle. But tonight, given the circumstances, she is shy of that and Anne seems to know it, for she concentrates all her attention on that delicate bump of flesh at the top, sliding her fingers down lower only to wet them before returning to that tender spot.

And every move Anne makes there sends pulses of pleasure along Ann’s spine, every circle of her fingers making something quiver and ache low in her stomach. When Anne dips her head and puts her mouth to Ann’s breast again, her tongue on Ann’s nipple mirroring each swipe of her fingers, Ann throws her head back and cries out, overwhelmed.

At times like this when Ann is dizzy and shaking with desire, when the intensity of what Anne can do to her body is almost too much to bear, Ann’s mind will sometimes shake itself free. It will swoop up from her body and look down at her from above, quite separate.

She sees herself in Anne’s arms and is half-abashed, half-amazed by the sight it. She is wanton and flushed. Her hair has sprung loose from her braid, her mouth is pink and open.

To think that but a year before she didn’t know a person could feel such things or could do such things to another. Now she sees her hands move, knowing and sure, to pull up Anne’s nightdress to her waist, to shift Anne’s hips so she sits astride Ann’s thigh, to press low on Anne’s back, encouraging her forwards.

She almost wouldn’t recognise herself, this woman who is so shameless in her own pleasures, so capable of giving pleasure in return.

But she knows it must be her, for when her mind sees Anne, from above, move against her, she feels it too, the slick, wet heat of Anne through the cloth at her thigh. And when she sees Anne bend her head to kiss her collarbone, she feels Anne’s breath, quick and moist against her neck. But most of all, when she watches Anne’s right arm, the muscles tensing and flexing under the thin cotton of her nightdress and the hand that is buried in the opening of Ann’s drawers, she feels Anne’s fingers rubbing, hot and wet, against her skin.

And then Anne moves her hand lower and all at once Ann is slammed back into herself, no longer split but one. For Anne has slid her fingers firmly down the parting of her flesh and paused at the place where she opens, and Ann is suddenly so breathlessly, heart-stoppingly aroused that she cannot think of anything but the feel of those two fingertips. Anne teases the opening for a moment, just dipping her fingers in half an inch and circling them gently, stretching the delicate skin. If Ann had had any hesitation about having her there before, it is gone now.

It feels as though all the blood in her veins has rushed to that point, she feels swollen and tender, as though that place is throbbing against Anne’s fingers. She pushes her hips up, trying to force Anne deeper.

Anne laughs breathlessly, circles her fingers again, “Tell me what you want, Ann.”

“More,” Ann gasps. “Please.”

“Say you want me.”

“I want you.”

“Say you are mine,” Anne says, low and commanding.

“I am yours, Anne.”

And at that Anne groans and thrusts into her, two fingers at once, buried deep into Ann. At the same time she rocks down against Ann’s leg, firm and steady, so for every thrust of her hand there is an answering press of her lap on Ann’s thigh. She is so wet that the fabric of Ann’s drawers is soon drenched and Ann can feel the exact shape of Anne sliding against her bare skin.

That, combined with the feel of Anne’s fingers inside her, curling and pressing, is enough to make the ripples of heat that are coursing through her sharpen and build. Above her she feels Anne strive and tremble in turn.

Their panting fills the room and they move as one, their thrusts becoming faster, messier, less precise. And when they reach that peak of pleasure, it is together, their bodies shaking and clenching against one another, perfectly attuned. Through it all Ann presses her mouth to Anne’s, gasping and kissing and crying out, dazed, as she always is, by the wonder of these moments, the cleverness of their bodies.

They stay locked like this, long after the initial rush of sensation, petting and kissing each other gently, enjoying the little trembles of pleasure that still run through them. At last Anne rolls off and sits up and Ann watches lazily from the pillow as she reaches for Ann’s discarded petticoat and wipes her fingers.

“I have heard,” she says, as she tosses the petticoat back into the pile for the wash, “that menstrual symptoms can often be much improved by such activity. It provokes a spasm of the womb – a sort of paroxysm – that is quite beneficial.”

“Oh must you make everything so _medical_, Anne?”

“It is interesting!”

“It is...” Ann laughs and tries to think of the word, “unromantic.”

“What could be more romantic than –”

Ann sits up and claps a hand over Anne’s mouth, still laughing. Under her fingers Anne continues for a moment, indignant – probably something about Paris and Cuvier and how beautiful a dissected lung is – but it is all blissfully inaudible. Ann watches her, patiently. When Anne eventually grows quiet, she peels her hand from Anne’s lips and presses a quick kiss to them.

“I shan’t let you win arguments that way every time, you know,” Anne sniffs, when they break apart. “It is cheating.”

\--

Later, when Ann is tucked in bed, Anne sat up finishing her diary entry beside her, she tries to imagine how the same day would have gone, had she still been at Crow Nest.

She would have woken, alone, taken breakfast, alone, and spent a solitary day, she supposes, in sewing or reading or perhaps walking her estate. When the first pains struck, she would have gritted her teeth and tried to bear it out, lest she drew yet more pitying glances from whatever relative had ensconced themselves in her drawing room that day. Then, when the pain grew intolerable, she would have finally acceded and retired to her bedroom, ignoring the murmured judgements following her up the stairs.

And the high-ceilinged room would have felt very cold and empty, despite all the flowers and the fussy fabrics. There would have been no one to stroke her back or call for a bath or make sure she ate. She would have lain in bed, dozing the day away, hoping that when she awoke things would be better.

It is both a very lonesome and a comforting thought. She nestles herself closer into the bedsheets, curling around Anne. For now “here you are” as Anne had said – warm, attended to, loved.

As if Anne had heard her thoughts, she pauses in her scribbling and places a hand absentmindedly on Ann’s arm, where Ann knows she will leave a small inkblot blooming across the cotton. She tends to do this, Ann has found, leave small traces of herself behind – a smudge of coal dust in a book Ann’s lent her, a scrape of mud on the hem of Ann’s dress, when they’ve sat cosily together on the sofa.

Ann never minds when she discovers them, these little evidences of Anne’s presence. They serve as reminders of the marks that won’t wash out, the indelible imprint of Anne on her life. Ann smiles to think of it, for, though Anne said she is still learning to believe she has Ann by her side, Ann can never forget that Anne is by hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are done. Thank you so much for everyone who has read and kudos-ed and commented. It's been lovely having you along for this ride :-)


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